


Survivor’s Syndrome

by HannahA



Category: Uta no Prince-sama
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Translation, Un-Beta’d
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 00:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17192981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahA/pseuds/HannahA
Summary: Dysfunctional relationships as they are — when you take what you get, not what you need.





	Survivor’s Syndrome

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Синдром выжившего](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/444098) by Adalheid21. 



> It’s an un-beta’d translation of my own fic in Russian, so there might be some (lots of) mistakes. Sorry about that!

Kotobuki Reiji sometimes has bad days.

The same Reiji Kotobuki that once killed his best friend.

Not that there was any time whatsoever when the crushing guilt ever left him, especially lately, since there was a living (for the lack of a better word) reminder of what he has done; though sometimes his existence became completely unbearable.

On those occasions guilt would eat away at him, would tear him apart from the inside, never leaving him, not for a moment of time. Guilt became his way of life, it determined every single thing: how much is he going to eat today; how many times he will excuse himself from the rehearsals to go to the bathroom and lock the door up so that no one sees him frantically gasping for air and clawing at his own skin until panic steps away; how much time he will spend wearing himself out at the gym, at the recording room or at the dance hall.

Any second of idleness could turn into torture those times, so he would often stay in the rehearsal room until late at night, to fall into deep slumber shortly after getting home. If he’s lucky — he wouldn’t be dreaming of anything. If he’s not — well, he earnestly deserved every nightmare that tortured him.

In his dreams Reiji would see his best friend hectically dialing his cellphone number. He would see him nervously biting his nails, pressing buttons again and again — and never getting an answer. He would see him slowly putting away the flip phone and closing it, never to use again.

If only Reiji had picked up the phone. If only he had been more persistent when asking why Aine had been skipping rehearsals. If only Reiji had noticed what was happening with his best friend.

_If only if only if only._

 

In a strange and desperate attempt to etch his life with meaning, he made a perfect anchor to hold shattered pieces of himself together — Quartet Night. If he hadn’t succeeded at creating a group on that day on the beach — he wouldn’t be alive now. Reiji knew that perfectly well and still deluded himself; he was just trying to stop himself from going after Aine by creating yet another promise, which _this time_ he definitely won’t break. He wouldn’t let the group fall apart due to his death, and that’s the reason why the lethal dose of drugs remains intact in a small cache under his bathroom. Reiji found the fact that the exact replica of Aine, among other people dear to him, was on the other side of the scales,ironic and even amusing. In the end, the image of his best friend seemed to haunt him even when his best friend was in coma.

Almost no one knew that he was experiencing almost every day. Not because of inattention or because his friends didn’t care; Reiji just hid it too well. He knew that he would never pull down the group he assembled with such difficulty and which was almost the only reason to live for him, so he learned to hide behind eternal smiles, jokes and faux foolishness. If someone noticed him staying up late in the studio, he would laugh it off and say something like, “I don’t want my baby to stand in traffic jams.” When you prepare for more than half your life to be an idol, putting up the right façade is your forte.

But one person still did know.

***

They both did not know exactly when this farce began between them, this game in which there was no winner, couldn’t be any from the start. They both lost the moment they got closer to each other more than the show required; when they looked at each other a little longer than the situation required; when their fingers intertwined a little tighter than common sense required. An android who tried to perceive the human feelings, and a person who would really love to get rid of them.

Ai wrapped his arms around Reiji’s neck, running his fingers through brown hair and pulling teammate’s body closer with his legs. Reiji kissed him desperately, even too much so, as if he was afraid that it was a dream, an apparition, and a boy with turquoise hair would disappear like a wraith...

"...again," thought Ai involuntarily, butquickly dismissed idea: he did not want to equate himself with Aine, or even think about who Reiji saw right now beneath him.

Reiji untied Ai's shirt, not pulling away from his lips, and Ai felt hot hands examining his mechanical body, palms following his chest, ribs and going down to his thighs, forcing him to breathe unevenly and bite his lips. Ai wondered whether real, actual people feel the same and how close are his artificial receptors to human ones. Reiji’s lips pulled him out of his thoughts: he gently touched Ai’s neck with them; the latter threw his head on the pillow, flinging up his disheveled turquoise hair, and leaned forward, running his hands over Reiji’s back. Reiji left wet marks on Ai’s clavicle, while his hands, clutching his hips, pulled his pants off.

The first thrust was painful, but Ai didn’tpull away, only pressed himself closer to Reiji — so that their bellies touched — and he dug his nails more firmly into his back, leaving pale reddish marks on skin. With each movement, groans and sobs burst from their throats; excitement was growing, and at that moment both could forget about everything: one of them — about how you cannot just replace one person with another (even if they are _very_ similar), the other — that he wasn’t created for the sake of ever experiencing human love.

 

Ai knew that every word of love he heard now was not meant for him; he knew, butstill continued to listen attentively to each syllable uttered, remembering everything inside and out. He convinced himself that it was for the sake of the person in whose image and likeness he was created and whose consciousness was synchronized with his own. However, in the depths of his non-existent soul, Ai knew that he needed it himself, that he would like these words to be addressed to him the most.

 

The last long groan rang out in the room, and Reiji sank wearily on Ai’s chest. Both were breathing heavily. Ai thoughtlessly stroked Reiji’s hair, winding strands on his fingers, and looked at the ceiling, feeling cold drops of tears falling on his skin.

 

Ai was laying on the bed and looking blankly at the dressing Reiji: he pulled on his black pants, then put on a simple white T-shirt and a jacket over his shoulders.

He stood up and headed for the door. Ai sat up on the bed, wrapped in a blanket, squeezed the edge of it in his palm and looked wistfully towards his lover, watching him intently. Before Ai could think about what’s the point of doing this, he called out Reiji’s name. Reiji stopped and turned around,seemingly surprised.

 

— You are not to blame.

 

Reiji didn't say a word, just smiled, completely empty and dull, lowered his eyes and left the room.

In response, all Ai got was the sound of a door slammed shut.


End file.
